Weeds
by AliceUnderSkies13
Summary: Their love is not a flower, it was not grown in the sunlight.


**A/N: Thought I might as well publish the one-shot I wrote for the bbcmerlinfest on tumblr. It was a lot of fun! This was for Day 4 of the fest, for favorite pairing. Morgwen is a pairing that I really like, especially the angsty side of it. So here it is. Enjoy :).**

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When the tyrant killed her father, things changed. Not in the good way. Not in the bad way. Just change, slow like tree roots digging into the earth. Fast like lightning turning dust to glass. She knows what she once told Merlin, that wanting to kill the tyrant would make her just as bad as him.

But so what? Who gives a damn about being queen of a land ruled by hatred? Why be a queen when you can be the love of another?

She loved Morgana a long time ago. When she first saw her black hair rolled out across a pillow. Her body in the tub, cold and wet and shivering. Her eyes so strong and proud, but they were always shadowed at the edges. If Merlin can love the Prince, then she can love the Ward.

Their love is not a flower. It is a weed. Bursting out of the cracks in the Camelot road. Stuck in the castle walls and shoved into the corner. Because it did not grow in sunlight. The tyrant made sure of that. And he sure as hell paid for it when Morgana came out of the woods. She looked so beautiful. Hair full of twigs, face full of scrapes and bruises. Both of them were pretending.

Then she made her move. That pretty queen of air and darkness. Gwen stills cries about that battle sometimes.

But that is a different story for a different time.

Right now, it is dawn. Pink and grey outside the windows. They rode in months ago, took the castle together. Gwen could barely contain herself when Morgana was crowned. The crown is heavy and makes her black hair lie flat. Gwen doesn't know if she likes it all that much anymore.

Because like her, Morgana changed. Not in the good way. Not in the bad way. Just change, slow like poison through veins. Fast like a forest fire. Morgana walks around the castle, silent. Her white dragon waits outside. She goes there a lot, to feed it and stroke it and whisper secret words into its ear. Gwen has become an afterthought. The castle's silence is laid on thick, layer upon layer. Black drapes cover the windows and blood hangs in the air. Deep inside, somewhere in the ground, Uther cries out. She keeps him chained in the subterranean tunnels. Gwen never wanted to see him tortured. Honestly, she was hoping he would repent. But those are silly thoughts for silly little girls. Morgana told her this once.

She grabbed Gwen's wrist and pushed her up against the wall. "You need to grow up, like I did."

Grow up?

Grow. Up.

As if she needs to. Her father was butchered for accidentally helping a sorcerer; her brother vanished in a fit of rage of vengeance, her Prince sat in silence and let it all happen. Because no one would dare kill a king. Oh, no. So just let the tyrant rule until he crushes all beneath his thumb. Morgana was the only one willing to fight. Gwen wishes she was still willing to fight for them.

Gwen sighs and watches the sun appear over the horizon. Another day in the new Camelot. She walks around aimlessly. Silence heavier than any crown. Sometimes, her father speaks to her inside her skull. Silence makes you think strange things.

"You're sad, Gwen. Is this what you really wanted?"

"Yes… I think so."

"But is this the kind of love you wanted, daughter?"

"I don't—"

Rounding a corner, she sees Morgana. Standing in the dark hallway with a sword in her hand. She weaves it through the air. Probably practicing for the skirmishes that arise every now and then. There are still some loyal to Uther Pendragon. And Arthur is out there somewhere with Merlin, inciting who knows what. Morgana will never forgive herself for letting them slip through her fingers. Though she did get all of the knights, one by one. Their heads are on spikes outside the castle walls. She keeps an empty spike clean and ready for Arthur.

Gwen watches her practice. Blade cutting the silence into pieces. Black dress clings to her body in all the right places. Gwen can't help but stare. She moves to the opposite side of the hall, back against the wall. Morgana pauses mid-cut.

"Oh, Gwen. Didn't notice you there."

"Good morning."

They're face to face. Walls made of stone and tattered black flags. Iron spike behind Gwen's back. It pokes her spine and she flinches. There is a lit torch next to her head. It crackles when Morgana's eye glow gold. She flinches again. Behind Morgana, a shiny spike is shoved halfway into the wall. She must be hanging another one of Uther's fingers. She cuts one off every now and then. He must be a bleeding stump by now. Or maybe she is practicing for when she will inevitably nail Gwen's fingers to the wall. Or her feet to the floor. Or just shove two nails into her eyes while she's sleeping. Gwen glances at the golden eyes that fade to grey and swallows hard. Then she sees the sword. It gleams in the firelight. Strong and proud. She remembers the smell of her father's forge, the way he used to bend the metal over itself, again and again. It made the sword stronger, he said. And then he would mark it with a seal… wait a second.

"That's my father's sword."

"Your father's dead, Uther made sure of that."

"I'm quite aware that he's dead, Morgana. No need to remind me. My point is, that sword belonged to my father. I recognize his handiwork. There are only a few of his swords left; I like to keep them, as a memory." She takes a deep breath, shoulders shaking. "You can't…you can't just use it whenever you want."

Morgana's words are slow. "It's. Just. A. Sword."

"Not to me." Teeth gritted, hands curled into fists.

Morgana takes a step back. Hitting the wall, she flinches. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry. Calm down."

"What, you're scared of me now?"

"Please. You don't scare me. You're just acting odd." She grips the sword tighter. Black curls blowing in the heat that spews from the torch. Both of them warm, tense, tied into a variety of knots. Overhand, a pretzel shape that mimics their insides. All tied up and waiting for something to happen. Fisherman's eye, holding the fragile peace together. Chain hitch, wrapped around their arms, pulling them closer and closer together.

"Give me the sword."

"If you want it so bad, take it from me."

Her father's voice is in her head. "Don't do it, Gwen. She's baiting you. Like a hunter with a bear trap."

"I don't care."

Morgana smirks. She knows that Gwen's sanity is slipping. "Talking to him again?"

Gwen smirks back. "Actually, yes I am. And I'm not listening to him."

"Is that supposed to mean some—"

Gwen tackles her, forcing her against the wall. Sliding down, gasping and screaming and pulling at her black curls. Spilling out like ink from a bottle.

"Give it to me!"

"Take it from me."

A kick in her teeth. A scratch down her arm. She rips her shoe off, a piece of her dress, a button from her waist. She grabs a fistful of hair and pulls her head back. Who is who? Rolling over grey stone soon to be tinted red. There's already blood smeared across Gwen's forehead. Morgana digs her fingers into the cut, saying, "There, you like that?"

"You are insane!"

"You struck first."

Gwen feels it. Cracked and bitten nails deep inside her skin. And she's hyperventilating, wondering if her fingers will reach her brain. Make it more damaged than it already is. Kneeing Morgana in the stomach, she rolls away, regretting the initial tackle. But she wants the sword back. Morgana must have dropped it as they were scrapping it out on the castle floor.

Cats fighting over the last bit of food. Calicos jumping from chairs. Tabbies leaping from ladders. Colliding mid-air. Moon eyes open, lidless. Never blinking. Gwen's eyes, open, trying not to blink. Morgana's eyes, red and full of tears. Morgana cries, angry and hissing like a snake. Dress ripped to shreds at the bottom. Chunks of hair ripped from both their heads. No one is really winning this battle.

The poor floor is being spat and bled upon. Morgana's bloody handprint mars the stone. Gwen does not like violence, not really, but this is different. It's her own blood. Red and raw before her very eyes.

Morgana claws, fingers going up and down Gwen's body. She slaps, hands all over her arms and legs. Roll, kick, fight, stab with fingers that are long enough to stroke her hair but never do, hiss like cats and spit like smoldering embers.

It's over. Time passes and it is finally over.

Cats tired. Their chests pulse. Tiny hearts struggling to keep blood flowing. Because it's slipping so quickly away. Broken hourglasses full of sand.

Gwen's on her back, blood sliding down her cheeks. "Are…we…done…now?"

"Yes." Morgana leans against the wall, pulling her knees up to her chin. "You pulled out one of my hairpins."

"You pulled out some of my flesh."

"As if it really makes a difference."

Silence perforated by gasps. They sit on the stone, blinking blood from their eyes.

Gwen starts laughing. Ironically, hollowly, she can't tell. "You're the devil."

"If I'm the devil, you're my advocate."

"Clever."

"Thank you."

And then Morgana rolls into her. Across the dark floor, picking up nothing but hairpins and drops of blood. They lie in silence for a while. Morgana buries her face in Gwen's chest. More time. They're still lying on the floor. Scratches look like animal attacks. Good thing they don't scream during their arguments. The guards would come running.

When the sun is rising high, Morgana stands up and leaves the hallway. She looks back at Gwen. "You know where we keep the bandages. Oh, and your father's sword is just beneath the torch. That's where I dropped it." She disappears into the bedroom. Tattered gown, messy hair. Floating away, a ghost. They're fights always end like this.

Funny thing is, they fight almost every day, but they still say "I love you". Tonight, Morgana will heap apologies onto the bed. She'll press herself against Gwen and say she's sorry. And they'll kiss under a sheer canopy, hands slipping under each other's dress. They'll kiss every cut and bruise and swear to never do it again. Then they'll say that this is nothing to the pain Uther caused them, and that makes everything okay. Morgana's lips will taste of pomegranate and ash. Warm and heaving, their bodies will move against each other. Fingers slipping in between thighs. Gwen will be thankful she still has her fingers.

Morgana will probably say something sick like, "I have one of Uther's fingers in the dresser. How about we use that?"

Gwen will wrinkle her nose in disgust and protest. "That is disgusting. No queen of Camelot should ever be defiled by such a thing."

Then they'll laugh and kiss and Gwen will show her true pleasure. But that is all in the future. Another story for another time.

Right now, Gwen is lying on the cold stone floor and listening to the silence. She looks at the weeds growing out of the cracks in the castle walls. She doesn't know whether to smile or cry. So she does both.


End file.
